Organized Chaos

Kimbo. Thika road. Thursday.

I think we are not asking the right questions. Where did a Kenyan meet a Brazilian? Agreed to make a master piece and who decided, let’s do it in Kikuyu? I asked this to someone he simply replied,

“Ni Mkikiyu what do you expect?”

Can’t wait to brag to my grandkids someday in the future. Play them some Bien, these new arbantone, top it with Wakadinali. Grandpa was gangster and still is, nyimbo za enzi zetu na bado hamjaskia Nameless! Says a single soul, but not that single at least naweza ekelewa mtu. It is the year of change banah!

 It’s Thursday, third week of the year. Holidays are over nyama inanuka tu kwa butchery, and for the next four months it is strictly business, no single holiday till you people kill Christ. As Kenyans, we have to drink for all His rises and falls, just a young boy born a month ago. By now we already used to. Everyone is busy rushing somewhere or doing something creating this rhythm from the noises created from the road construction works, Mary making tea on the furthest left next to this dark guy with a yellow apron making chapati, three 14-seater matatus competing who has the loudest pararila, while their conductors “convince” passengers to board. This is a special skill kwanza for the 14-seater touts unlike wale wamezoea kupangiwa line kama wale wa zile matatu za orange. Am seated on the driver’s seat of the bus waiting in line while listening to Mwaki by Zerb and Sofiya Nzayu while watching three conductors fight for a client.

“Huyu mtu wa Tuktuk ako wapi sasa?” Ras asks to no one in particular while pacing around, normal stage attendant behavior, dressed in a grey iron man t-shirt, blue jeans and because of the abnormal heat, he has his blue with red stripes dust coat hung loosely around his shoulders holding a dark cane like a Moran in Maasai mara only that instead of cows he is herding 33-seater matatus in line. There is something about this January, started on Monday and now we got July weather. I can imagine for those in snowing countries na Limuru things are little different for you. Huku Nairobi you can’t predict the weather. One minute we having a cool day kidogo kamvua na kabaridi thicker than babes tukingoja mafuta ishuke.

Ever wondered how different stages run effectively apart from the Nairobi ones, if you have been to Ngara kwanza time ya rush hour! I classify it as art what these men do making sure the buses are moving in and out the stage, there is order and here at Kimbo the last I checked, Rata is the order, he is the reasons the busses are moving in some kind of pattern. He knows who came in first and who is last.

“Wewe unafungia basi na huyu mdundu, songesha mbele” He adds as the Tuktuk driver appears followed by three ladies.

“Wacha nibebe hawa niende,” He pledges as he ushers the ladies in. “Wawili Ruiru Ndani? He manages to draw the attention of two men – one in a sharp suit, deeply engrossed in a phone call, and the other, a younger man, who seems bored and simply wants to go home. The duo shares a brief but significant glance. The suit guy nods in agreement, sealing a non-verbal contract, and they walk towards the front door of the tuk-tuk. Making all kinds of hand signs, the man in the suit stops and starts yelling to God knows who, while his counterpart is already in the vehicle. The tuk-tuk driver stands with one hand on the vehicle, unable to believe he is about to lose these clients.

Rasta patience wears thinner than a tightrope stretched to its limit, decides he’s had enough waiting, and starts forcing the tuk-tuk driver in his car. Him, he has made it a mission to have the man on the suit board. The two men start grappling as a matatu full of passengers headed to town pulls up. His only way of the stage, the tuk-tuk, has to move.

“Wewe ingia utoe hii nduthi imeomoka gari za ukweli zinataka kupita. Ona gari isha jaa na umefunga roddy, vuta mbele bana ubebe hapa kando” Rasta laments.

There is no ‘kando’, once he moves it is over for him. the bus will not only pass three more will reverse, leaving no space for his three-wheeled vehicle. The tuk-tuk driver, realizes the futility of his conquest, throws anxious glances over his shoulder as he bends to get in the car.

“Boss tunakuacha!” the driver shouts desperately. By now he is already in the vehicle, one hand outside waiting for the suit man to read between the lines and hop in.

 It’s that hour where every matatu is rushing to town, ata bei imeshuka sahii ni forty. We no longer charging thirty shillings blame the government, na usinshoutie aunty! Mimi ni babe boy! Matatu people, we aren’t that patient, and have a way of finding our way out in tight spots example, traffic. I read a comment somewhere. Follow a matatu and you will realize there was really no traffic. Just dramatic drivers in line waiting for the first car in line to move. Rongai people understand what am talking about. It’s a universal thing, though, and South Africans are way worse than us.

Angrily, the driver hoots as Rasta tries to push the vehicle himself. The tuk-tuk driver gives up, starts his engine, hoots twice and slowly starts moving still with his door open. It’s a fight he intends to win. Na yeye handanganyi gari imebakisha mmoja iende.

“Hey! Excuse! usiniache” Suit man shouts flailing his arms dramatically and fakes a run towards the tuk-tuk, it stops. The matatu hoots again somehow it feels louder than before.

Rasta loses it!

Dramatically, he marks time, holds out his cane and breathes in and out twice. Suit man boards the three wheeled. Swiftly, the driver locks the door and exits the scene.

“Siku moja nitakuja kupiga mtu ngumi” Rasta declares and walks away, paving the way for the matatu.